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AT THE 



CONSECRATION OF MOUNT AUBURN, 



BY JOSEPH STORY 



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CEMETERY AT MOUNT AUBURN, 



SEPTEMBER 24, 1831. 



BY JOSEPH STORY. 



> • ■ 



TO WHICH IS ADDED AN APPEN 
AND DESCRIPTION OF THE 

PRESENT SUBSCRIBERS 



DIX, CONTAINING A HIi;*T(3lpJcXL NjiTlqE ". !•, I / ' ' 
E PLACE, WITH A LIST .oVl THE •.•'',.'' ''\\ ''' 



BOSTON. 

JOSEPH T. & EDWIN BUCKINGHAM. 
1831. 









At a meeting of the Committee of the Horticultural Society, Sep^ 
tember 24, 1831, — it was 

" Voted, That the thanks of the Society be given to the Hon. Judge Story 
for his eloquent, feeling, and highly pertinent Address, and that he be re- 
quested to furnish a copy foi the press." 

H. A. S. DEARBORN, Chairman. 



• « t 



Cambridge, Sept. 24, 1831. 
Dear Sir — 

I resign the manuscript of my Address to the disposal of the Committee 
of Arrangements, with my grateful acknowledgements for the indulgence 
with which tiiey are pleased to view my labors. I ought to add, that it was 
necessarily prepared in great haste, and without any thought of publi- 
cation. 

I have the honor to remain, 

With the highest respect. 

Your obliged servant, 

JOSEPH STORY.. 

TJie Hon. Henry A. S. Dearborn, 
Of the CoTijmiltee of Arrangements. 



IN EXCHANGE 



ADDRESS. 



My Friends, 

The occasion, which brings us together, has much 
in it calculated to awaken our sensibilities, and cast a 
solemnity over our thoughts. 

We are met to consecrate these grounds exclusively 
to the service and repose of the dead. 

The duty is not new ; for it has been performed 
for countless millions. The scenery is not new ; for 
the hill and the valley, the still, silent dell, and the 
deep forest, have often been devoted to the same 
pious purpose. But that, which must always give it 
a peculiar interest, is, that it can rarely occur except 
at distant intervals ; and, whenever it does, it must 
address itself to feelings intelligible to all nations, and 
common to all hearts. 

The patriarchal language of four thousand years 
ago is precisely that, to which we would now give 
utterance. We are " strangers and sojourners" here. 
We have need of " a possession of a burying-place, 
that we may bury our dead out of our sight." Let 
us have " the field, and the cave which is therein ; 



and all the trees, that are m the field, and that are in 
the borders round about ;" and let them " be made 
sure for a possession of a burjing-place." 

It is the duty of the living thus to provide for the 
dead. It is not a mere office of pious regard for oth- 
ers ; but it comes home to our own bosoms, as those 
who are soon to enter upon the common inheritance. 

If there are any feelings of our nature, not bound- 
ed by earth, and yet stopping short of the skies, 
which are more strong and more universal than all 
others, they will be found in our solicitude as to the 
time and place and manner of our death ; in the de- 
sire to die in the arms of our friends ; to have the 
last sad offices to our remains performed by their af- 
fection ; to repose in the land of our nativity ; to be 
gathered to the sepulchres of our fathers. It is al- 
most impossible for us to feel, nay, even to feign, in- 
difference on such a subject. 

Poetry has told us this truth in lines of transcend- 
ant beauty and force, which find a response in every 
breast ; — 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries ; 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

It is in vain, that Philosophy has informed us, that 
the whole earth is but a point in the eyes of its Cre- 
ator, — nay, of his own creation ; that, wherever we 



are, — abroad or at home, — on the restless ocean, or 
the solid land, — we are still under the protection of 
his providence, and safe, as it were, in the hollow of 
his hand. It is in vain, that Religion has instructed 
us, that we are but dust, and to dust we shall return, — 
that whether our remains are scattered to the corners 
of the earth, or gathered in sacred urns, there is a 
sure and certain hope of a resurrection of the body 
and a life everlasting. These truths, sublime and 
glorious as they are, leave untouched the feelings, of 
which I have spoken, or, rather, they impart to them 
a more enduring reality. Dust as we are, the frail 
tenements, which enclose our spirits but for a season, 
are dear, are inexpressibly dear to us. We derive 
solace, nay, pleasure, from the reflection, that when 
the hour of separation comes, these earthly remains 
will still retain the tender regard of those, whom we 
leave behind ; — that the spot, where they shall lie, 
will be remembered with a fond and soothing reve- 
rence ; — that our children will visit it in the midst of 
their sorrows ; and our kindred in remote generations 
feel that a local inspiration hovers round it. 

Let him speak, who has been on a pilgrimage of 
health to a foreign land. Let him speak, who has 
watched at the couch of a dying friend, far from his 
chosen home. Let him speak, who has committed 
to the bosom of the deep, with a sudden, startling 
plunge, the narrow shroud of some relative or com- 
panion. Let such speak, and they will tell you, that 
there is nothing, which wrings the hear^ of the 
dying, — aye, and of the surviving, — with sharper 



6 

Tigony, than the thought, that they are to sleep their 
last sleep in the land of strangers, or in the unseen 
depths of the ocean. 

" Bury me not, I pray thee," said the patriarch 
Jacob, " bury me not in Egypt : but I will lie with 
my fathers. And thou shalt carry me out of Egypt ; 
and bury me in their burying-place." — " There they 
buried Abraham and Sarah his wife ; there they bu- 
ried Isaac and Rebecca his wife ; and there I buried 
Leah." 

Such are the natural expressions of human feeling, 
as they fall from the lips of the dying. Such are the 
reminiscences, that forever crowd on the confines of 
the passes to the grave. We seek again to have our 
home there with our friends, and to be blest by a 
communion with them. It is a matter of instinct, 
not of reasoning. It is a spiritual impulse, which 
supersedes belief, and disdains question. 

But it is not chiefly in regard to the feelings be- 
longing to our own mortality, however sacred and 
natural, that we should contemplate the establish- 
ment of repositories of this sort. There are higher 
moral purposes, and more affecting considerations, 
which belong to the subject. We should accustom 
ourselves to view them rather as means, than as 
ends ; rather as influences to govern human conduct, 
and to moderate human suffering, than as cares inci- 
dent to a selfish foresight. 

It is to the living mourner — to the parent, weeping 
over his dear dead child — to the husband, dwell- 
ing in his own solitary desolation — to the widow., 



whose heart is broken by untimely sorrow — to the 
friend, who misses at every turn the presence of some 
kindred spirit — It is to these, that the repositories 
of the dead bring home thoughts full of admonition, 
of instruction, and, slowly but surely, of consolation 
also. They admonish us, by their very silence, of our 
own frail and transitory being. They instruct us in 
the true value of life, and in its noble pui^poses, its 
duties, and its destination. They spread around us, 
in the reminiscences of the past, sources of pleasing, 
though melancholy reflection. 

We dwell with pious fondness on the characters and 
virtues of the departed ; and, as time interposes its 
growing distances between us and them, we gather 
up, with more solicitude, the broken fragments of 
memory, and weave, as it were, into our very hearts, 
the threads of their history. As we sit down by 
their graves, we seem to hear the tones of their af- 
fection, whispering in our ears. We listen to the 
voice of their wisdom, speaking in the depths of our 
souls. We shed our tears ; but they are no longer 
the burning tears of agony. They relieve our droop- 
ing spirits, and come no longer over us with a death- 
ly faintness. We return to the world, and we feel 
ourselves purer, and better, and wiser, from this com- 
munion with the dead. 

I have spoken but of feelings and associations com- 
mon to all ages, and all generations of men — to the 
rude and the polished — to the barbarian and the civ- 
ilized — to the bond and the free — to the inhabitant 
of the dreary forests of the north, and the sultry re- 



8 

gions of the south — to the worshipper of the sun, and 
the worshipper of idols — to the Heathen, dwelling 
in the darkness of his cold mythology, and to the 
Christian, rejoicing in the light of the true God. 
Every where we trace them in the characteristic re- 
mains of the most distant ages and nations, and as 
far back as human history carries its traditionary out- 
lines. They are found in the barrows, and cairns, 
and mounds of olden times, reared by the uninstruct- 
ed affection of savage tribes ; and, every where, the 
spots seem to have been selected with the same ten- 
der regard to the living and the dead ; that the mag- 
nificence of nature might administer comfort to hu- 
man sorrow, and incite human sympathy. 

The aboriginal Germans buried their dead in groves 
consecrated by their priests. The Egyptians gratified 
their pride and soothed their grief, by interring them 
in their Elysian fields, or embalming them in their 
vast catacombs, or enclosing them in their stupendous 
pyramids, the wonder of all succeeding ages. The 
Hebrews watched with religious care over their places 
of burial. They selected, for this purpose, orna- 
mented gardens, and deep forests, and fertile valleys, 
and lofty mountains ; and they still designate them 
with a sad emphasis, as the " House of the Living." 
The ancient Asiatics lined the approaches to their 
cities with sculptured sarcophagi, and mausoleums, 
and other ornaments, embowered in shrubbery, traces 
of which may be seen among their magnificent ruins. 
The Greeks exhausted the resources of their exquis- 
ite art in adorning; the habitations of the dead. 



They discouraged interments within the limits of 
their cities ; and consigned their reliques to shady 
groves, in the neighborhood of murmuring streams 
and mossy fountains, close by the favorite resorts of 
those, Avho were engaged in the study of philoso- 
phy and nature, and called them, with the elegant 
expressiveness of their own beautiful language, Ceme- 
teries,* or " Places of Repose." The Romans, 
faithful to the example of Greece, erected the mon- 
uments to the dead in the suburbs of the eternal city, 
(as they proudly denominated it,) on the sides of their 
spacious roads, in the midst of trees and ornamental 
walks, and ever-varying flowers. The Appian way 
was crowded with columns, and obelisks, and ceno- 
taphs to the memory of her heroes and sages ; and, 
at every turn, the short but touching inscription met 
the eye, — Siste Viator, — Pause Traveller, — inviting 
at once to sympathy and thoughtfulness. Even the 
humblest Roman could read on the humblest grave- 
stone the kind offering — " May the earth lie lightly on 
these remains !"t And the Moslem Successors of the 
emperors, indifferent as they may be to the ordinary 
exhibitions of the fine arts, place their burying-grounds 
in rural retreats, and embellish them with studious 
taste as a religious duty. The cypress is planted at 
the head and foot of every grave, and waves with a 
mournful solemnity over it. These devoted grounds 
possess an inviolable sanctity. The ravages of war 
never reach them ; and victory and defeat equally re- 
spect the limits of their domain. So that it has been 

* x'>'H'^''9^<^ — literally, places of sleep. +' ■'• Sit tibi terra levis." 

2 



10 

remarked, with equal truth and beauty, that while the 
cities of the living are subject to all the desolations 
and vicissitudes incident to human affairs, the cities 
of the dead enjoy an undisturbed repose, without 
even the shadow of change. 

But I will not dwell upon facts of this nature. 
They demonstrate, however, the truth, of which I 
have spoken. They do more ; they furnish reflec- 
tions suitable for our own thoughts on the present 
occasion. 

If this tender regard for the dead be so absolutely 
universal, and so deeply founded in human affection, 
why is it not made to exert a more profound influence 
on our lives ? Why do we not enlist it with more per- 
suasive energy in the cause of human improvement ? 
Why do we not enlarge it as a source of religious 
consolation ? Why do we not make it a more efficient 
instrument to elevate Ambition, to stimulate Genius, 
and to dignify Learning ? Why do we not connect it 
indissolubly with associations, which charm us in Na- 
ture and engross us in Art ? Why do we not dispel 
from it that unlovely gloom, from which our hearts 
turn as from a darkness, that ensnares, and a horror, 
that appalls our thoughts ? 

To many, nay, to most of the heathen, the bury- 
ing-place was the end of all things. They indulged 
no hope, at least, no solid hope, of any future inter- 
course or re-union with their friends. The farewell 
at the grave was a long, and an everlasting farewell. 
At the moment, when they breathed it, it brought to 
their hearts a startling sense of their own wretched- 



11 

ness. Yet, when the first tumults of anguish were 
passed, they visited the spot, and strewed flowers, and 
garlands, and crowns around it, to assuage their grief, 
and nourish their piety. They delighted to make it 
the abode of the varying beauties of Nature ; to give 
it attractions, which should invite the busy and th€ 
thoughtful ; and yet, at the same time, afford ample 
scope for the secret indulgence of sorrow. 

Why should not Christians imitate such examples ? 
They have far nobler motives to cultivate moral sen- 
timents and sensibilities ; to make cheerful the path- 
ways to the grave ; to combine with deep meditations 
on human mortality the sublime consolations of re- 
ligion. We know, indeed, as they did of old, that 
" man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go 
about the streets." But that home is not an ever- 
lasting home ; and the mourners may not weep as 
those, who are without hope. What is the grave to 
Us, but a thin barrier dividing Time from Eternity, 
and Earth from Heaven ? What is it but " the ap- 
pointed place of rendezvous, where all the travellers 
on life's journey meet" for a single night of repose — 

" 'T is but a night — a long and moonless night, 
We make the Grave our Bed, and then are gone." 

Know we not 

" The time draws on 



V/hen not a single spot of burial earth, 
Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, 
But must give up its long committed dust 
Inviolate ?" — 

Why then should we darken with systematic caution 
all the avenues to these repositories ? Why should 



12 

we deposit the remains of our friends in loathsome 
vaults, or beneath the gloomy crypts and cells of our 
churches, where the human foot is never heard, save 
when the sickly taper lights some new guest to his 
appointed apartment, and " lets fall a supernumerary 
horror" on the passing procession ? Why should we 
measure out a narrow portion of earth for our grave- 
yards in the midst of our cities, and heap the dead 
upon each other with a cold, calculating parsimony, 
disturbing their ashes, and wounding the sensibilities 
of the living ? Why should we expose our burying- 
grounds to the broad glare of day, to the unfeeling 
gaze of the idler, to the noisy press of business, to 
the discordant shouts of merriment, or to the baleful 
visitations of the dissolute ? Why should we bar up 
their approaches against real mourners, whose deli- 
cacy would shrink from observation, but whose ten- 
derness would be soothed by secret visits to the grave, 
and holding converse there with their departed joys ? 
Why all this unnatural restraint upon our sympathies 
and sorrows, which confines the visit to the grave to 
the only time, in which it must be utterly useless — 
when the heart is bleeding with fresh anguish, and is 
too weak to feel, and too desolate to desire conso- 
lation ? 

It is })ainful to reflect, that the Cemeteries in our 
cities, crowded on all sides by the overhanging hab- 
itations of the living, are walled in only to preserve 
them from violation. And that in our countiy towns 
they are left in a sad, neglected state, exposed to 
every sort of intrusion, with scarcely a tree to shelter 



13 

their barrenness, or a shrub to spread a grateful shade 
over the new-made hillock. 

These things were not always so among christians. 
They are not worthy of us. They are not worthy of 
Christianity in our day. There is much in these 
things, that casts a just reproach upon us in the past. 
There is much, that demands for the future a more 
spiritual discharge of our duties. 

Our Cemeteries rightly selected, and properly ar- 
ranged, may be made subservient to some of the high- 
est purposes of religion and human duty. They may 
preach lessons, to which none may refuse to listen, 
and which all, that live, must hear. Truths may 
be there felt and taught in the silence of our own 
meditations, more persuasive, and more enduring, 
than ever flowed from human lips. The grave 
hath a voice of eloquence, nay, of superhuman 
eloquence, which speaks at once to the thoughtless- 
ness of the rash, and the devotion of the good ; which 
addresses all times, and all ages, and all sexes ; which 
tells of wisdom to the wise, and of comfort to the 
afflicted ; which warns us of our follies and our 
dangers ; which whispers to us in accents of peace, 
and alarms us in tones of terror ; which steals with 
a healing balm into the stricken heart, and lifts up 
and supports the broken spirit ; which awakens a 
new enthusiasm for virtue, and disciplines us for its 
severer trials and duties ; which calls up the images 
of the illustrious dead, with an animating presence for 
our example and glory ; and which demands of us, as 
men, as patriots, as christians, as immortals, that the 



14 

powers given by God should be devoted to his ser- 
vice, and the minds created by his love, should return 
to him with larger capacities for virtuous enjoyment, 
and with more spiritual and intellectual brightness. 

It should not be for the poor purpose of gratifying 
our vanity or pride, that we should erect columns, 
and obelisks, and monuments to the dead ; but that 
we may read thereon much of our own destiny and 
duty. We know, that man is the creature of associa- 
tions and excitements. Experience may instruct, 
but habit, and appetite, and passion, and imagination, 
will exercise a strong dominion over him. These are 
the Fates, which weave the thread of his character, 
and unravel the mysteries of his conduct. The truth, 
which strikes home, must not only have the approba- 
tion of his reason, but it must be embodied in a visi- 
ble, tangible, practical form. It must be felt, as well 
as seen. It must warm, as well as convince. 

It was a saying of Themistocles, that the trophies 
of Miltiades would not suffer him to sleep. The feel- 
ing, thus expressed, has a deep foundation in the hu- 
man mind ; and, as it is well or ill directed, it will 
cover us with shame, or exalt us to glory. The deeds 
of the great attract but a cold and listless admiration, 
when they pass in historical order before us like mov- 
ing shadows. It is the trophy and the monument, 
which invest them with a substance of local reality. 
Who, that has stood by the tomb of Washington on 
the quiet Potomac, has not felt his heart more pure, 
his wishes more aspiring, his gratitude more warm, 
and his love of country touched by a holier flame ? 



15 

Who, that should see erected in shades, like these, 
even a cenotaph to the memory of a man, like Buck- 
minster, that prodigy of early genius, would not feel, 
that there is an excellence over which death hath no 
power, but which lives on through all time, still fresh- 
ening with the lapse of ages. 

But passing from those, who by their talents and 
virtues have shed lustre on the annals of mankind, to 
cases of mere private bereavement, who, that should 
deposit in shades, like these, the remains of a beloved 
friend, would not feel a secret pleasure in the thought, 
that the simple inscription to his worth would receive 
the passing tribute of a sigh from thousands of kin- 
dred hearts ? That the stranger and the traveller 
would linger on the spot with a feeling of reverence ? 
That they, the very mourners themselves, when they 
should revisit it, would find there the verdant sod, 
and the fragrant flower, and the breezy shade ? That 
they might there, unseen, except of God, offer up 
their prayers, or indulge the luxury of grief ? That 
they might there realize, in its full force, the affect- 
ing beatitude of the scriptures ; " Blessed are they 
that mourn, for they shall be comforted ?" 

Surely, surely, we have not done all our duty, if 
there yet remains a single incentive to human virtue, 
without its due play in the action of life, or a single 
stream of happiness, which has not been made to 
flow in upon the waters of affliction. 

Considerations, like those, which have been sug- 
gested, have for a long time turned the thoughts of 
many distinguished citizens to the importance of some 



16 

more appropriate places of sepulture. There is a 
growing sense in the community of the inconvenien- 
ces, and painful associations, not to speak of the un- 
healthiness of interments, beneath our churches. The 
tide, which is flowing with such a steady and widen- 
ing current into the narrow peninsula of our Metrop- 
olis, not only forbids the enlargement of the common 
limits, but admonishes us of the increasing dangers 
to the ashes of the dead from its disturbing move- 
ments. Already in other cities, the church-yards are 
closing against the admission of new incumbents, and 
begin to exhibit the sad spectacle of promiscuous 
ruins and intermingled graves. 

We are, therefore, but anticipating at the present 
moment, the desires, nay the necessities of the next 
generation. We are but exercising a decent anxiety 
to secure an inviolable home for ourselves and our 
posterity. We are but inviting our children and their 
descendants, to what the Moravian Brothers have, 
with such exquisite propriety, designated as " the 
Field of Peace." 

A rural Cemetery seems to combine in itself all the 
advantages, which can be proposed to gratify human 
feelings, or tranquillize human fears ; to secure the 
best religious influences, and to cherish all those as- 
sociations, which cast a cheerful light over the dark- 
ness of the grave. 

And what spot can be more appropriate than this, 
for such a purpose ? Nature seems to point it out 
with significant energy, as the favorite retirement for 
the dead. There are around us all the varied fea- 



17 

tures of her beauty and grandeur — the forest-crowned 
height ; the abrupt acclivity ; the sheltered valley ; 
the deep glen ; the grassy glade ; and the silent 
grove. Here are the lofty oak, the beech, that 
" vi^reathes its old fantastic roots so high," the rust- 
ling pine, and the drooping willow ; — the tree, that 
sheds its pale leaves with every autumn, a fit emblem 
of our own transitory bloom ; and the evergreen, with 
its perennial shoots, instructing us, that " the wintry 
blast of death kills not the buds of virtue." Here is 
the thick shrubbery to protect and conceal the new- 
made grave ; and there is the wild-flower creeping 
along the narrow path, and planting its seeds in the 
upturned earth. All around us there breathes a 
solemn calm, as if we were in the bosom of a wil- 
derness, broken only by the breeze as it murmurs 
through the tops of the forest, or by the notes of the 
warbler pouring forth his matin or his evening song. 
Ascend but a few steps, and what a change of 
scenery to surprise and delight us. We seem, as it 
were in an instant, to pass from the confines of death, 
to the bright and balmy regions of life. Below us 
flows the winding Charles with its rippling current, 
like the stream of time hastening to the ocean of 
eternity. In the distance, the City, — at once the ob- 
ject of our admiration and our love, — rears its proud 
eminences, its glittering spires, its lofty towers, its 
graceful mansions, its curling smoke, its crowded 
haunts of business and pleasure, Avhich speak to the 
eye, and yet leave a noiseless loneliness on the ear. 
Again we turn, and the walls of our venerable Uni- 

3 



18 

versity rise before us, with many a recollection of 
happy days passed there in the interchange of study 
and friendship, and many a grateful thought of the 
affluence of its learning, which has adorned and nour- 
ished the literature of our country. Again we turn, 
and the cultivated farm, the neat cottage, the village 
church, the sparkling lake, the rich valley, and the 
distant hills, are before us through opening vistas ; 
and we breathe amidst the fresh and varied labors of 
man. 

There is, therefore, within our reach, every variety 
of natural and artificial scenery, which is fitted to 
awaken emotions of the highest and most affecting 
character. We stand, as it were, upon the borders 
of two worlds ; and as the mood of our minds may 
be, we may gather lessons of profound wisdom by 
contrasting the one with the other, or indulge in the 
dreams of hope and ambition, or solace our hearts by 
melancholy meditations. 

Who is there, that in the contemplation of such a 
scene, is not ready to exclaim with the enthusiasm of 
the Poet, 

" Mine be the breezy hill, that skirts the down, 
Where a green, grassy turf is all I crave, 

With here and there a violet bestrown, 

Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave, 

And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave ?" 

And we are met here to consecrate this spot, by 
these solemn ceremonies, to such a purpose. The 
Legislature of this Commonwealth, with a parental 
foresight has clothed the Horticultural Society with 
authority (if I may use its own language) to make 



19 

a perpetual dedication of it, as a Rural Cemetery or 
Burying- Ground, and to plant and embellish it with 
shrubbery, and flowers, and trees, and walks, and 
other rural ornaments. And I stand here by the or- 
der and in behalf of this Society, to declare that, by 
these services, it is to be deemed henceforth and for- 
ever so dedicated. Mount Auburn, in the noblest 
sense, belongs no longer to the living, but to the 
dead. It is a sacred, it is an eternal trust. It is 
consecrated ground. May it remain forever invio- 
late ! 

What a multitude of thoughts crowd upon the 
mind in the contemplation of such a sceiie. How 
much of the future, even in its far distant reaches, 
rises before us with all its persuasive realities. Take 
but one little narrow space of time, and how affecting 
are its associations ! Within the flight of one half 
century, how many of the great, the good, and the 
wise, will be gathered here ! How many in the love- 
liness of infancy, the beauty of youth, the vigor of 
manhood, and the maturity of age, v\ ill lie down here, 
and dwell in the bosom of their mother earth ! The 
rich and the poor, the gay and the wretched, the fa- 
vorites of thousands, and the forsaken of the world, 
the stranger in his solitary grave, and the patriarch 
surrounded by the kindred of a long lineage ! How 
many will here bury their brightest hopes, or blasted 
expectations ! How many bitter tears will here be 
shed ! How many agonizing sighs will here be heav- 
ed ! How many trembling feet will cross the path- 



20 

ways, and returning, leave behind them the dearest 
objects of their reverence or their love ! 

And if this were all, sad indeed, and funereal would 
be our thoughts ; gloomy, indeed, would be these 
shades, and desolate these prospects. 

But — thanks be' to God — the evils, which he per- 
mits, have their attendant mercies, and are ble*ssings 
in disguise. The bruised reed will not be laid utterly 
prostrate. The wounded heart will not always bleed. 
The voice of consolation will spring up in the midst 
of the silence of these regions of death. The mourner 
will revisit these shades with a secret, though melan- 
choly pleasure. The hand of friendship will delight 
to cherish the flowers, and the shrubs, that fringe the 
lowly grave, or the sculptured monument. The ear- 
liest beams of the morning will play upon these sum- 
mits with a refreshing cheerfulness ; and the lingering 
tints of evening hover on them with a tranquilizing 
glow. Spring will invite thither the footsteps of the 
young by its opening foliage ; and Autumn detain the 
contemplative by its latest bloom. The votary of 
learning and science will here learn to elevate his 
genius by the holiest studies. The devout will here 
offer up the silent tribute of pity, or the prayer of 
gratitude. The rivalries of the world will here drop 
from the heart ; the spirit of forgiveness will gather 
new impulses ; the selfishness of avarice will be 
checked ; the restlessness of ambition will be re- 
buked ; vanity will let fall its plumes ; and pride, 
as it sees " what shadows we are, and what shadows 



21 

we pursue," will acknowledge the value of virtue as 
far, immeasurably far, beyond that of fame. 

But that, which will be ever present, pervading 
these shades, like the noon-day sun, and shedding 
cheerfulness around, is the consciousness, the irrepres- 
sible consciousness, amidst all these lessons of human 
mortality, of the higher truth, that we are beings, not 
of time but of eternity — " That this corruptible must 
put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on im- 
mortality." That this is but the threshold and start- 
ing point of an existence, compared w ith whose dura- 
tion the ocean is but as a drop, nay the whole crea- 
tion an evanescent quantity. 

Let us banish, then, the thought, that this is to be 
the abode of a gloom, which will haunt the imagina- 
tion by its terrors, or chill the heart by its solitude. 
Let us cultivate feelings and sentiments more worthy 
of ourselves, and more worthy of Christianity. Here 
let us erect the memorials of our love, and our grati- 
tude, and our glory. Here let the brave repose, who 
have died in the cause of their country. Here let the 
statesman rest, who has achieved the victories of 
peace, not less renowned than war. Here let genius 
find a home, that has sung immortal strains, or has 
instructed with still diviner eloquence. Here let 
learning and science, the votaries of inventive art, 
and the teacher of the philosophy of nature come. 
Here let youth and beauty, blighted by premature 
decay, drop, like tender blossoms, into the virgin 
earth ; and here let age retire, ripened for the har- 



22 

vest. Above all, here let the benefactors of mankind, 
the good, the merciful, the meek, the pure in heart, 
be congregated ; for to them belongs an undying 
praise. And let us take comfort, nay, let us rejoice, 
that in future ages, long after we are gathered to the 
generations of other days, thousands of kindling hearts 
w^ill here repeat the sublime declaration, " Blessed 
are the dead, that die in the Lord, for they rest from 
their labors : and their works do follow them." 






APPENDIX. 

BY ORDER OF THE COMMITTEE. 

The recent purchase and disposition of the grounds at Mount 
Auburn, has effected the consummation of two designs, which for 
a considerable time have been cherished by numerous members 
of the community, in the city of Boston, and its vicinity. One 
of these, is the institution of a Garden for the promotion of Scien- 
tific Horticulture ; — the other, the establishment, in the environs 
of the city, of a retired and ornamented place of Sepulture. 

Six or seven years ago, meetings were held, and measures 
taken, to carry into effect the plan of a private rural Cemetery. 
But although there appeared to be no want of interest in the de- 
sign, and of numbers sufficient to effect its execution, yet the 
scheme was suspended, from the difliiculty of obtaining, at that 
time, a lot of land in all respects eligible for the purpose. 

After the establishment of the Massachusetts Horticultural 
Society, in 1829, it occurred to some of its members, that a Ceme- 
tery of the character which had been desired, might with great 
propriety be instituted under the auspices of this new Society, 
and that by a union of the interests of each institution, the suc- 
cess and permanency of their objects might be reciprocally pro- 
moted Upon a notification signed by Dr. J. Bigelow and John 
C. Gray, Esq. a meeting of gentlemen was held at the Exchange 
Coffee House, November 27, 1830, for the general consideration of 
the subject. At this meeting it was announced that a tract ofground, 
of about seventy acres, at the place then called Sweet Auburn, 
and owned by G. W. Brimmer, Esq., would be placed at the dis- 
posal of the Society. A committee was appointed at a cotem- 
poraneous meeting of the Horticultural Society, to consider the 
expediency of making this purchase, and to devise measures for 
forwarding the design of a rural Cemetery and experimental Gar- 
den. This committee afterwards obtained leave to fill their own 
vacancies, and to enlarge their number by the addition of persons 
not members of the Horticultural Society. A report in behalf of 
this committee was afterwards made by Gen. H. A. S. Dearborn, 
President of the Society, and published in the newspapers, in 
which an extensive and able exposition was made of the advan- 
tages of the undertaking. 

At a meeting of persons favorably disposed towards the design, 
held at the Horticultural Rooms, June 8th, 1831, a strong and 
general wish was manifested for the immediate prosecution of the 
undertaking. A committee of twenty was chosen to consider 
and report upon a general plan of proceedings. The following 



24 

gentlemen constituted this committee : — Messrs. Joseph Story, 
Daniel Webster, Henry A. S. Dearborn, Samuel Appleton, 
Charles Lowell, Jacob Bigelovv, Edward Everett, George Bond, 
George W. Brimmer, Abbot Lawrence, James T. Austin, Frank- 
lin Dexter, Alexander H. Everett, Charles P. Curtis, Joseph P. 
Bradlee, John Pierpont, Zebedee Cook, jr., Charles Tappan, 
Lucius M. Sargent, and George W. Pratt. This committee sub- 
sequently offered the following Report, which was accepted, and 
made the basis of subscription for those who might become 
proprietors. 

The Committee of the Horticultural Society, to whom was referred the 
method of raising subscriptions for the Experimental Garden and Ceme- 
tery, beg leave to Report : — 

1. That it is expedient to purchase for a Garden and Cemetery, a tract 
of land, commonly known by the name of Sweet Auburn, near the road 
leading from Cambridge to Watertown, containing about seventy-two acres, 
for the sum of six thousand dollars ; provided this sum can be raised in the 
manner proposed in the second article of this Report. 

2. That a subscription be opened for lots of ground in the said tract, con- 
taining not less than two hundred square feet each, at the price of sixty 
dollars for each lot, — the subscription not to be binding until one hundred 
lots are subscribed for. 

3. That when a hundred or more lots are taken, the right of choice shall 
be disposed of at an auction, of which seasonable notice shall be given to 
the subscribers. 

4. That those subscribers, who do not offer a premium for the right of 
choosing, shall have their lots assigned to them by lot. 

5. That the fee of the land shall be vested in the Massachusetts Horti- 
cultural Society, but that the use of the lots, agreeably to an act of the 
Legislature, respecting the same, shall be secured to the subscribers, their 
heirs, and assigns, forever. 

G. That the land devoted to the purpose of a Cemetery shall contain not 
less than forty acres. 

7. That every subscriber, upon paying for his lot, shall become a mem- 
ber for life, of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society, without being sub- 
ject to assessments. 

8. That a Garden and Cemetery Committee, of nine persons, shall be 
chosen annually, first by the subscribers, and afterwards by the Horticultu- 
ral Societ)", whose duty it shall be to cause the necessary surveys and al- 
lotments to be made, to assign a suitable tract of land for the Garden of the 
Society, and to direct all matters appertaining to the regulation of the Gar- 
den and Cemetery ; and five at least of this Committee shall be persons 
having rights in the Cemeter}'. 

9. That the esf*,blislunent, including the Garden and Cemetery, be called 
by a definite name, to be supplied by the Committee. 

The protection of the Legislature of the Commonwealth, being 

considered indispensable, the following Act, was applied for and 

obtained. 

COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS. 

In the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirtij-one. 

An Act, in addition to an Act, entitled " An Act to incorporate the Massa- 
chusetts Horticultural Society." 
Section L Beit enacted hy the Senati and House of Ixeprcsentatives, in 
General Court assemUed, and by the authority of the some. That the Massa- 



25 

chusetta Horticultural Society be, and hereby are, authorised, in addition 
to the powers already conferred on them, to dedicate and appropriate any 
part of the real estate now owned or hereafter to be purchased by them, as 
and for a Rural Cemetery or Burying Ground, and for the erection of 
Tombs, Cenotaphs, or other Monuments, for, or in memory of the dead ; 
and for this purpose, to lay out the same in suitable lots or other subdi- 
visions, for family, and other burying places ; and to plant and embellish the 
same with shrubbery, flowers, trees, walks, and other rural ornaments, and 
to enclose and divide the same with proper walls and enclosures, and to 
make and annex thereto other suitable appendages and conveniences, as the 
Society shall from time to time deem expedient. And whenever the said 
Society shall so lay out and appropriate any of their real estate for a Ceme- 
tery or Burying Ground, as aforesaid, the same shall be deemed a perpetual 
dedication thereof for the purposes aforesaid ; and the real estate so dedi- 
cated shall be forever held by the said Society, in trust for such purposes, 
and for none other. And the said Society, shall have authority to grant 
and convey to any person or persons, the sole and exclusive right of burial, 
and of erecting Tombs, Cenotaphs, and other Monuments, in any such de- 
signated lots and subdivisions, upon such terms and conditions, and sub- 
ject to such regulations as the said Society shall by their by-laws and regu- 
lations prescribe. And every right so granted and conveyed shall be held 
for the purposes aforesaid, and for none other, as real e«tate, by the pro- 
prietor or proprietors thereof, and shall not be subject to attachment or 
execution. 

Section II. Be it further enacted, That for the purposes of this Act, the 
said Society shall be, and hereby are authorised to purchase and hold any 
real estate not exceeding ten thousand dollars in value, in addition to the 
real estate which they are now by law authorised to purchase and hold. 
And to enable the said Society more effectually to carry the plan aforesaid 
into effect, and to provide funds for the same, the said Society shall 
be, and hereby are, authorised to open subscription books, upon such 
terms, conditions, and regulations as the said Society shall prescribe, 
which shall be deemed fundamental and perpetual articles, between the 
said Society, and the subscribers. And every person, who shall become 
a subscriber in conformity thereto, shall be deemed a member for life of the 
said Society without the payment of any other assessment whatsoever ; and 
shall moreover be entitled, in fee simple, to the sole and exclusive right of 
using, as a place of burial, and of erecting Tombs, Cenotaphs, and other 
Monuments in such lot or subdivision of such Cemetery or Burying Ground, 
as shall in conformity to such fundamental articles be assigned to him. 

Section III. Be it further enacted, That the President of said Society 
shall have authority to call any special meeting or meetings of the said So- 
ciety, at such time and place as he shall direct, for the purpose of carrying 
into effect any or all the purposes of this Act, or any other purposes within 
the purview of the original Act, to which this Act is in addition. 

In House of Representatives, June 22d, 1831. Passed to be enacted. 

WILLIAM B. CALHOUN, Speaker. 

In Senate, June '23d, 1831. Passed to be enacted. 

LEVERETT SALTONSTALL, President. 

June 23d, 1831 . Approved. 

LEVI LINCOLN. 

A true Copy 

.ittest, EDWARD D. BANGS, 

Secretary of Commonwealth. 



26 

At a meeting of subscribers, called August 3d, 1831, it ap- 
peared that one hundred lots in the Cemetery, had at that time 
been taken by subscription ; and that, therefore, agreeably to the 
terms, the subscription had become obligatory. The following 
gentlemen were then chosen to constitute the Garden and Ceme- 
tery Committee : — Messrs. Joseph Story, Henry A. S. Dearborn, 
Jacob Bigelow, Edward Everett, George W. Brimmer, George 
Bond, Charles Wells, Benjamin A. Gould, and George W. Pratt. 
At the same time it was resolved that a public religious consecra- 
tion should be held upon the grounds, and the following gentle- 
men were appointed a committee to make arrangements for that 
purpose : — Messrs. Joseph Story, Henry A. S. Dearborn, Charles 
P. Curtis, Charles Lowell, Zebedee Cook, jr., Joseph T. 
Buckingham, George W. Brimmer, George W. Pratt, and Z. B. 
Adams. 

At a meeting of the Garden and Cemetery Committee, August 
8th, it was voted that General Dearborn, Dr. Bigelow, and Mr. 
Brimmer, be a sub-committee to procure an accurate topographi- 
cal survey of Mount Auburn, and to report a plan for laying it 
out into lots. This sub-committee engaged the services of Mr. 
Alexander Wadworth, Civil Engineer, with whose assistance they 
have now completed the duty assigned to them. 

The public religious consecration of the Cemetery, took place 
on Saturday, September 24th, 1831. A temporary amphitheatre 
was fitted up with seats,. in one of the deep vallies of the wood, 
having a platform for the speakers erected at the bottom. An 
audience of nearly two thousand persons were seated among the 
trees, adding a scene of picturesque beauty t& the impressive 
solemnity of the occasion. The order of performances was as 
follows : — 

1. Instrumental Music, by the Boston Band. 

2. Introductory Prayer, by Rev. Dr. Ware. 

3. HYMN, 

Written by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont. 

To thee, O God. in humble trust. 

Our liearts their cheerful incense burn, 
For this thy word, '• Thou art of dust. 

And unto dust shalt thou return." 

For, what were life, life's work all done, 
The hopes, joys, loves, that cling to clay, 

All, all departed, one by one, 

And yet life's load borne on for aye ! 

Decay ! Decay ! 'tis stamped on all ! 

All bloom, in flower and flesii shall fade ; 
Ye whispering trees, when we shall fall. 

Be oar long sleep beneath your shade ! 



27 

Here to thy bosom, mother Earth. 

Take back, in peace, what thou hast given ; 
And all that is of heavenl}^ birth, 

O God, in peace, recall to Heaven ! 

4. ADDRESS, 
Bv THE Hon. Joseph Stoky. 

5. Concluding Prayer, by the Rev. Mr. Pierpont. 

6. Music by the Band, 

The following account of the scene is taken from the Boston 
Courier of the time. 

An unclouded sun and an atmosphere purified by the showers of the 
preceding night, combined to make the day one of the most delightful we 
ever experience at this season of the year. It is unnecessary for us to say 
that the address by Judge Story was pertinent to the occasion, for if the 
name of the orator were not sufficient, the perfect silence of the multitude, 
enabling him to be heard with distinctness at the most distant part of the 
beautiful amphitheatre in which the services were performed, will be suffi- 
cient testimony as to its worth and beauty. Neither is it in our power to 
furnish any adequate description of the effect produced by tJie music of the 
thousand ^voices which joined in the hymn, as it swelled in chastened 
melody from the bottom of the glen, and, like the spirit of devotion, found 
an echo in every heart, and pervaded the whole scene. 

The natural features of Mount Auburn are incomparable for the purpose 
to which it is now sacred. There is not in all the untrodden vallies of the 
West, a more secluded, more natural or appropriate spot for the religious 
exercises of the living ; we may be allowed to add our doubts whether the 
most opulent neighborhood of Europe furnishes a spot so singularly appro- 
priate for a " Garden of Graves." 

In the course of a few years, when the hand of Taste shall have passed 
over the luxuriance of Nature, w^e may challenge the rivalry of the world to 
produce another sucii abiding place for the spirit of beauty. JMount Auburn 
has been but little known to the citizens of Boston ; but it lias now become 
holy ground, and 

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, 
— a village of the quick and the silent, where Nature throws an air of cheeT- 
fulness over the labors of Death, — wall soon be a place of more general re- 
sort, both for ourselves and for strangers, than any other spot in the vicinity. 
Where else shall we go with the musings of Sadness, or for the indulgence 
of Grief; where to cool the burning brow of Ambition, or relieve the 
swelling heart of Disappointment ? We can find no better spot, for the 
rambles of curiosity, health or pleasure ; none sweeter, for the whispers of 
affection among the living ; none lovelier, for the last rest of our kindred. 



The tract of land which has received the name of Mount 
Auburn, is situated on the southerly side of the main road leading 
from Cambridge to Watertovvn, and is partly within the limits of 
each of those towns. Its distance from Boston is about four 
miles. The place was formerly known by the name of Stone's 
Woods, the title to most of the land having remained in the 
family of Stone, from an early period after the settlement of 
the country. Within a few years, the hill and part of the wood- 
land were offered for sale, and were purchased by George W. 



28 

Brimmer, Esq., whose object was to prevent tlie destruction of 
the trees, and to preserve so beautiful a spot for some public, or 
appropriate use. The purchase which has now been made by the 
Horticultural Society, includes between seventy and eighty acres, 
extending from the road, nearly to the banks of Charles river. A 
portion of the land situated next to the road, and now under cul- 
tivation, is intended to constitute the Experimental Garden of the 
Horticultural Society. A long water-course extending between 
this tract and the interior woodland, forms a natural boundary, 
separating the two sections. The inner portion, which is set 
apart for the purposes of a Cemetery, is covered, throughout 
most of its extent with a vigorous growth of forest trees, many 
of them of large size, and comprising an unusual variety of 
kinds. This tract is beautifully undulating in its surface, con- 
taining a number of bold eminences, steep acclivities, and deep 
shadowy vallies. A remarkable natural ridge with a level surface 
runs through the ground from south-east to north-west and has for 
many years been known as a secluded and favorite walk. The 
principal eminence, called Mount Auburn in the plan, is one 
hundred and twenty-five feet above the level of Charles river, and 
commands from its summit one of the finest prospects which can 
be obtained in the environs of Boston. On one side is the city 
in full view, connected at its extremities with Charlestown and 
Roxbury. The serpentine course of Charles river, with the cul- 
tivated hills and fields rising beyond it, and having the Blue 
Hills of Milton in the distance, occupies another portion of the 
landscape. The village of Cambridge, with the venerable edifi- 
ces of Harvard University, are situated about a mile to the east- 
ward. On the norths at a very small distance. Fresh Pond ap- 
pears, a handsome sheet of water, finely diversified by its woody 
and irregular shores. Country seats and cottages seen in various 
directions, and especially those on the elevated land at Water- 
town, add much to the picturesque effect of the scene. It is 
proposed to erect on the summit of Mount Auburn, a Tower, 
after some classic model, of sufficient height to rise above the 
tops of the surrounding trees. This will serve the double pur- 
pose of a landmark to identify the spot from a distance, and of an 
observatory commanding an uninterrupted view of the coun- 
try around it. From the foot of this monument will be seen in 
detail the features of the landscape, as they are successively pre- 
sented through the different vistas which have been opened among 
the trees ; while from its summit, a magnificent and unbroken 
panorama, embracing one of the most delightful tracts in New- 
England, will be spread out beneath the eye. Not only the con- 
tiguous country, but the harbor and the bay of Boston, with their 
ships and islands, and, in a clear atmosphere, the distant moun- 



29 

tains of Wachusett, and probably, even of Monadnock, will be 
comprehended within the range of vision. 

The grounds of the Cemetery have been laid out with inter- 
secting avenues, so as to render every part of the wood accessi- 
ble. These avenues are curved and variously winding in their 
course, so as to be adapted to the natural inequalities of the sur- 
face. By this arrangement, the greatest economy of the land is 
produced, combining at the same time the picturesque effect of 
landscape gardening. Over the more level portions, the avenues 
are made twenty feet wide, and are suitable for carriage roads. 
The more broken and precipitous parts are approached by foot- 
paths, which are six feet in width. These passage-ways are to be 
smoothly gravelled, and planted on both sides with flowers and 
ornamental shrubs. Lots of ground, containing each three 
hundred square feet, are set off, as family burial places, at suita- 
ble distances on the sides of the avenues and paths. The per- 
petual right of inclosing and of using these lots, as places of 
sepulture, is conveyed to the purchasers of them, by the Horticul- 
tural Society. It is confidently expected that many of the pro- 
prietors will, without delay, proceed to erect upon their lots such 
monuments and appropriate structures, as will give to the place a 
part of the solemnity and beauty, which it is destined ultimately 
to acquire. 

It has been voted to procure, or construct, a receiving tomb in 
Boston, and another at Mount Auburn, at which, if desired, 
funerals may terminate, and in which the remains of the deceased 
may be deposited, until such time as the friends shall choose to 
direct their removal to the Cemetery ; this period, however, not 
to exceed six months. 

The principal entrance to Mount Auburn, will be through a 
lofty Egyptian gateway, which it is proposed to erect on the 
main road, at the commencement of the Central Avenue. Anoth- 
er entrance or gateway is provided on the cross road at the eastern 
foot of the hill. Whenever the funds of the corporation shall 
justify the expense, it is proposed that a small Grecian or Gothic 
Temple shall be erected on a conspicuous eastern eminence, 
which in reference to this allotment has received the prospective 
name of Temple Hill. 

As the designation and conveyance of the lots requires that they 
should be described with reference to places bearing fixed ap- 
pellations, it has been found necessary to give names to the 
avenues, foot-paths, hills, &c. The names which have been 
adopted, were suggested chiefly by natural oI)jects and obvious 
associations. Taken in connexion with the printed plan, they 
vi'ill be found sufficient to identify any part of the ground, without 
the probability of mistake. 



AVENUES, 



Beech A^ 


?enue 


leads 


from Central to Poplar. 


Cedar 


a 


(( 


Cypress to Walnut. 


Central 


ii 


(C 


North entrance to Walnut. 


Chesnut 


u 


li 


Mountain to Poplar. 


Cypress 


t( 


il 


Central to Walnut. 


Garden 


ic 


11 


Cross Road to Central. 


Larch 


11 


ii 


Poplar to Maple. 


Laurel 


li 


ii 


Walnut round Laurel Hill. 


Locust 


a 


ii 


Beech to Poplar. 


Magnolia 


it 


il 


Chesnut to Maple. 


Maple 


(£ 


a 


Magnolia to Garden. 


Mountain 


If 


li 


Chesnut round Mount Auburn 


Oak 


ii 


li 


Willow to Larch. 


Pine 


ii 


a 


Cypress to Central. 


Poplar 


li 


il 


Central to Chesnut. 


Walnut 


ii 


li 


Central to Mountain. 


Willow 


li 


11 


Poplar to Larch. 



FOOT-PATHS. 



Alder ] 


Pat 


Catalpa 
Hawthorn 


If 
11 


Hazel 


11 


Hemlock 


11 


Holly 
Indian ridge 


11 

a 


Iris 


li 


Ivy 

Jasmine 


il 

11 


Lilac 


a 


Lily 
Linden 


il 

a 


Myrtle 
Moss 


li 
a 


Olive 


it 


Osier 


It 


Rose 


it 


Sumac 


it 


Sweetbriar 


It 


Violet 


It 


Vine 


It 


Woodbine 


il 



leads from Locust avenue to Poplar avenue. 

" Indian ridge path to the same. 

" Chesnut avenue to Hazel path. 

" Hawthorn path to Mountain avenue. 

" Ivy path to Poplar avenue. 

" Poplar avenue to Ivy path. 

" Larch avenue to Central avenue. 

" Ivy path to Moss path. 

" Poplar avenue to Woodbine path. 

" Hawthorn path to Chesnut avenue. 

" Indian ridge path to Willow avenue. 

" Woodbine path to Poplar avenue. 

" Beech avenue to the same. 

" Chesnut avenue to Hazel path. 

" Ivy path to Laurel avenue. 

" Myrtle path to Sweetbriar path. 

" Indian ridge path to Willow avenue. 

" Hawthorn path to the same. 

" Moss path to Violet path. 

" Chesnut avenue to Hawthorn path. 

" Laurel avenue to Ivy path. 

" Moss path to Ivy path. 

" Hawthorn path round Cedar hill. 



Mount Auburn, 
Harvard iiill, 
Temple hill, 
Juniper hill, 



HILLS 



Cedar liill. 
Pine hill. 
Laurel hill. 



PRESENT SUBSCRIBERS TO MOUNT AUBURN. 



Abel Adams, 
Benjamin Adams, 
C. Frederic Adams, 
Z. B. Adams, 
Nathan Appleton, 
Samuel Appleton, 
James T. Austin, 
William Austin, 
Charles Barnard, 
Charles B. Brown, 
G. W. Brimmer, 
Jacob Bigelow, 
George Bond, 
J. B. Brown, 
Benjamin Bussey, 
Joseph P. Bradlee, 
I. Barker, 
J. T. Buckingham, 
Edwin Buckingham, 
James Boyd, 
John Brown, 
Levi Brigham, 
Charles Brown, 
Ebenezer Bailey, 
Joshua Blake, 
Dennis Brigham, 
Jesse Bird, 
Zebedee Cook, Jr., 
Charles P. Curtis, 
Thomas B. Curtis, 
Joseph Coolidge, 
Samuel F. Coolidge, 



Alpheus Cary, 
George W. CofRn, 
Joshua Clapp, 
George G. Channing, 
E. Craigie, 
Joshua Coolidge, 
H. A. S. Dearborn, 
John Davis, 
Daniel Davis, 
Franklin Dexter, 
Warren Dutton, 
Daniel Denny, 
James Davis, 
James A. Dickson, 
Richard C. Derby, 
Alexander H. Everett, 
Edward Everett, 
David Eckley, 
John Farrar, 
Robert Farley, 
Richard Fletcher, 
Charles Folsom, 
David Francis, 
Benjamin Fisk, 
B. B. Grant, 
John C. Gray, 
B. A. Gould, 
Elisha Haskell, 
Charles Hickling, 
Zachariah Hicks, 
Abraham Howard, 
Thomas Hastings, 



32 



Henderson Inches, 
William Ingalls, 
Deming Jarvis, 
Joseph B. Joy, 
George H. Kuhn, 
William Lawrence, 
Amos Lawrence, 
Abbott Lawrence, 
Isaac Livermore, 
Josiah Loring, 
John Lemist, 
Charles Lowell, 
Isaac McLellan, 
Isaac Mead, 
Robert D. C. Merry, 
Francis J. Oliver, 
John Pierpont, 
George W. Pratt, 
Samuel Pond, 
Edward W. Payne, 
T. H. Perkins, Jr., 
Francis Parkman, 
Isaac Parker, 
Josiah Quincy, 
John Randall, 
Henry Rice, 
James Read, 
J. P. Rice, 
J. L. Russell, 
Joseph Story, 
Henry B. Stone, 



George C. Shattuck, 
William Stanwood, 
David Stanwood, 
L. M. Sargent, 
D. A. Simmons, 
James T. Savage, 
Robert G. Shaw, 
Jared Sparks, 
James Savage, 
P. R. L. Stone, 
Leonard Stone, 
Asahel Stearns, 
David Stone, 
Charles Tappan, 
Frederic Tudor, 
J. F. Thayer, 
Peter Thacher, 
Supply C. Thwing, 
Charles Wells, 
Samuel Whitwell, 
S. G. Williams, 
Benjamin F. White, 
Abijah White, 
Thomas Wiley, 
Thomas B. Wales, 
Rufus Wyman, 
Henry Ware, 
Benjamin Waterhouse, 
Samuel Walker, 
F. S. J. Winship, 
Jonathan Winship. 



LB D "05 



/ 



( 



\ 



LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 




